


You Get What You Need

by norah



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: F/M, Het, Kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-05-23
Updated: 2005-05-23
Packaged: 2017-10-02 06:40:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3627
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/norah/pseuds/norah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Directly after the events of X2, Rogue can't sleep. Neither can Bobby.</p>
            </blockquote>





	You Get What You Need

**Author's Note:**

> For the 2005 Kink/Cliché Multifandom Challenge (verbal domination and exhibitionism). Betaing and hand-holding by Minisinoo, Mofic, Fanofall, and Wild Boys, who are all fabulous; Min and Mo, particularly, kicked my ass when I needed it and made extensive helpful comments and suggestions on the characterization.

It's been a long day, and Marie's got too much on her mind to go to sleep. Too much on her mind in a very literal sense. She feels _crowded_, mentally, with so many new imprints.

That’s how she thinks of them – _imprints_. It’s not like the people she's touched, the people she's _absorbed_, are actually inside her head, and they’re not just memories, or voices, either. She tried to explain it to Bobby, once; she told him it was like living inside a bunch of other people, only in her own skin. He didn’t really understand, but that’s the closest she’s ever gotten to being able to put it into words.

Marie can still feel St. John, his anger, his frustration, his delight in his own power. The imprint is strong and fresh, overriding older voices like Erik's and Logan's. His feelings and reactions, memories and thought patterns, are heavy in her mind and she's not sure how much it’s bleeding through, but she suspects it’s quite a bit. She catches her fingers twitching, trying to flick a lighter she’s never owned.

It took her weeks after Ellis Island to stop calling the Professor "Charles" and leave off whirling white-knuckled and ready for action at the slightest disturbance; months more for the dreams to stop, of cages and uniformed men in laboratories, of smooth metal and grimy old streets. It isn’t all bad; trig suddenly makes a lot more sense, though she’s not sure which one that came from, and she wasn’t the one who knew enough about planes to half-pilot that jet, either. Still, she’d give just about anything to make it go away.

It's not as bad this time. She didn't take as much from St. John as she had from the others. Just enough to make him stop. But it's still bad. And he's not the only new imprint, either. She's got a bit of Bobby in there now too, sad and wistful and wanting and when you put the sad with the angry and the wanting with the frustration and think about the fucking _awful_ things that have been happening – well. No wonder it’s two in the morning and she’s still staring at the ceiling, wide awake.

Dr. Grey is _dead_. St. John is _gone_. She’s been to Boston, Canada, and the White House in the last few days, been shot at and psychically attacked, flown a multi-million dollar stealth plane (badly), met her boyfriend’s family, had the second (and third) kiss of her whole life, and gained two new imprints. It's enough to make her want to scream or fight or fucking burn the mansion down or… She can't burn the mansion down. That's not _her_ power. She shoves the thought back, sits up in bed and puts her arms around her knees. Fuck.

She needs to talk to Bobby. He's probably not asleep either; without knowing how she knows (is it his imprint? St. John’s? Or did he tell her and she just forgot?) Marie is sure he's awake. And she has a good idea of where he'll be. Shoving down the sheets, she hops out of bed, putting on the long gloves from the nightstand out of habit, and finding a warmer robe to go over her thin satin nightgown. The hallway outside her room is dark and silent, and the rug runners are cool and soft against her bare feet. Closing the door behind her, she pads down the hall and up a small flight of stairs.

Bobby's sitting in the reading nook in front of the open window. The wind is blowing in; it's cold, but of course he can't feel it, even though all he's got on is a thin t-shirt and his boxers. When he hears the door open, his head snaps up – he's still wound tight from the day, and Marie can see every muscle in his body tense before he sees it's her. He slumps back and gives her a small half-smile. "Hey, Marie."

She goes over to him and closes the window, sitting down next to him and curling carefully into his side. She wraps her hands, warm in the long gloves, around his waist, and leans her head against his shoulder, making sure her hair shields his skin from hers. He worms an arm around her in turn and for a while, they just sit like that.

It's good, just being with Bobby. She likes him. She _trusts_ him, and she doesn't trust many people, even now she's been at the school for a while. Remnants of Erik or Logan, or maybe just her own experience, have taught her that; she can remember the look in her mother's eyes the day she sent Jason to the hospital in a coma. Human affection is a fragile thing. Especially when you're a mutant.

The memory of her own parents reminds her that she's not the only one hurting. Bobby lost his family today, or as good as, and he's probably just as raw and hurt as she feels now. Friendly, open, loving Bobby, who wears his heart on his sleeve. She squeezes him a little tighter and murmurs into his neck, "Bobby."

He hums a little interrogatory noise and kisses her hair.

"Bobby, your family –" he goes still above her, but she's said it now, she has to continue. "I'm so sorry."

He shrugs, but she can feel the tension in him, the way his shoulder curls down a little more under her head. "Well, I guess I didn't really expect them to be happy about it. I hoped …" his voice chokes off, and he shrugs again. "Maybe they'll get over it." He doesn't sound as though he believes himself.

Marie pulls back, looking at him as she smoothes one gloved hand through his messy, every-which-way hair. His face is pinched and unhappy as he stares back at her.

"I wish I could kiss you," he says suddenly. "I wish I could _touch_ you." His voice is fierce, and his hand tightens on her hip.

"I'm sorry, Bobby." And she is. "I don't want to hurt you." He looks away and hangs his head. She rubs at one thigh, feeling the satin shift against her skin. She's hypersensitive, her body aware of the slide of the fabric, the warmth of Bobby's arm, the cool air on her skin.

Marie wants to touch as badly as he does, though she's learned to ignore the low-level craving that's always with her. Tonight, especially, she needs something to ground her, to lessen the tension, to center her on her own reactions, focus her in her own thoughts.

"We could, um . . . " she's blushing now, and can't quite say what she's thinking, but she can tell he's listening. "Look, Bobby, I wish we could, I really do."

"It's okay," he says, a little too quickly, and she knows it's not. They're coming of age in wartime, whatever the Professor says, and Dr. Grey is _dead_ and St. John is _gone_ and they can't even fucking touch each other. It's not okay.

The anger and frustration comes slamming back, and even being held like this isn't enough to calm her. Her hands twitch again, but there's no lighter, no adamantium, nothing but her own blocked and starved and deadly skin beneath the gloves. She feels reckless, dangerous.

She slides her hand over, onto his thigh, and leans back.

"You could touch yourself for me." And just _saying_ it is a rush, power and sex and possibility. She can hear St. John say "Because I can," leaning back in his chair at the museum with that cocky grin. Hears it in stereo, surround sound, her memory of it merged with Bobby's merged with St. John's. Remembers the heady rush of using power just because. Just because she can.

Bobby swallows hard, and before he can open his mouth to start asking questions she reaches over and takes his hand in hers, moves it up and sets it at the juncture of his own hip and his thigh, over the thin cotton of his boxers. "Go on, Bobby. I want to watch." She takes her hand away and scoots back, moving out of the snug circle of his arm to the other side of the windowseat.

He's still staring at her with his mouth hanging open, not moving. She hears herself say, "What's the matter, Drake, you chicken?" and knows it's not her voice, not her words, but the bravado seems to be helping, so she doesn't shove it back down. She lets the robe fall back off her shoulders and draws up one bare foot onto the cushion.

She knows that her nipples are hard in the cool air, poking through the satin. She knows, because Bobby can't keep his eyes off them. His gaze has dropped from her face and he's staring, though he yanks his attention back up to her face when she reaches up and pinches at one of them.

Knowing he's watching her is kind of hot, but she's not going to do this alone. "Bobby," she says again. "Go on. I want to see you. Please." His hand twitches, an abortive movement like he's not sure whether to try to hide his growing erection or help it along. She reaches for that voice, the brash part of her mind that calls him "Drake." She needs the borrowed confidence for this, because God knows she'd never ask on her own.

And St. John wouldn't have either, but this desire she feels isn't all hers. She feels pieces of it that have a different … texture, or something. Like, but not like. It's a bit of a shock to the part of her that isn't wrapped up in this, the part that's still observing, but she realizes dimly that it makes sense. She and John both wanted this, and this is the only way they'll get it; his words, her body. Bobby's reacting to them both, in a way, almost holding his breath as he watches her, pressing his palm against his cock, camouflage and contact both. She smiles, and it's a dare, a goad.

"Take your shirt off." She's coaxing, but the smile remains, taunting; she can feel it, knows how it looks on her face, St. John's smirk. She's still toying with her nipple and Bobby swallows as his eyes drop to watch. He puts his hands to the hem of his shirt and hesitates. "Good boy, Bobby," she drawls, and he sucks in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening in the material.

The shirt comes up and over his head in one movement; he tosses it next to himself on the floor, like if he thought about it any more he'd chicken out. Part of her is shaking – _my God, he's almost naked_ – and part of her already knows what he looks like, smooth and pale with sleek muscle just beneath the skin.

He's all the way hard now, his boxers poking out in front, the gap in the fly pushing open under the pressure. Marie's never seen a man's cock before, but she's got enough men in her head that some days she can't believe she hasn't got one of her own. After Ellis Island sometimes she'd wake up in the middle of the night to take a piss and stumble half-asleep into the bathroom to stand over the toilet before she remembered she had to sit down to pee. But knowing what it feels like to have a cock and seeing someone else hard for you are two different things. She licks her lips.

"Show me." Telling Bobby what to do is hotter than it should be, and it goes straight to her clit when she sees him run his hand over his cock through the cotton. He's still blushing, but he lets out this little gasp when he does it, too. "Wish I could kiss you, Bobby Drake," she says, and she feels St. John's frustration and longing, indistinguishable from her own. "Wish I could touch you. Touch yourself for me," and he's got a good grip now, he's stroking himself slowly through the cotton, "let me see you."

He shudders and his head falls back a little, but he's not just giving in. "You too," he manages, and his voice breaks, but he continues. "You touch yourself for me, too."

She grins a little. He’s right - fair’s fair, and if he's taking off clothes for her, she should reciprocate. Just too bad for him she's got a little bit more on to start with. She struggles out of the robe completely and lets a strap of the nightgown fall down her shoulder, far enough that one side slips over the peak of her nipple. "I can do that," and she's teasing a little, now, reaching up to cup her breast, running her thumb up and over the tip, feeling the areola draw tight and catch on the fabric of the glove. "If you'll take your shorts off."

He's staring at her, at the curve of her breast over the dark satin of her gown, and when she reaches up with her other hand to scratch at the other nipple through the satin he brings both hands up and hooks his thumbs in the waistband of his boxers, pulling them out and over his erection, watching all the while like a man in a trance. He kicks them off and _God_, he's completely naked, thick cock standing up eagerly from its nest of dark blond curls, skin shining cold in the moonlight. "Go on," Marie prompts him, and he wraps his fingers around the shaft and starts to stroke, slow and even.

She bites at the fingers of her left hand, using her teeth to pull off the glove, the stretchy fabric clinging and resisting. She's done that twice in the last two days, stripped off her glove; once to make John stop when he'd gone crazy on the porch, and once in anger at Magneto's taunts. It's dangerous, her skin, and she unsheathes it like the weapon it is.

Bobby stops the motion of his hand to watch her take the glove off and set it carefully aside, and he can see that he's pressing hard at the base of his cock as she dips two naked fingers in her mouth. She can't believe she's doing this, but it's so good, the way he's looking at her, the way he's gasping now, quiet shuddering breaths. And maybe she couldn't pull this off without a head full of other people, but it's not all bad. Sometimes you get what you need, she thinks to herself, and she'd laugh if it weren't so deadly serious.

She sucks at her fingers, watching Bobby's cock. She knows what it would taste like; too many men in her head for her not to know that taste. Maybe she even knows what _Bobby_ tastes like, maybe some of that knowledge she can't quite sort out comes from Bobby, his fingers in his own mouth, licking himself clean. Tasting himself.

It's a heady thought. She takes her hand away, pulls up the hem of the nightgown in big slithery handfuls over her bare thighs until it's half-pooled around her waist. She's naked from the waist down, now, one leg drawn up on the cushion and the other stretched down over the side. He probably can't see much in the shadows, but she drops her bare hand down and rubs at her clit anyway. She can hear him whisper, "Oh _shit_, Marie" as her fingers slide over slick, swollen flesh.

She's almost _too_ wet; her fingertips can't give her the friction she needs, but the look in Bobby's eyes is making up for that. His hand is moving over his cock again, short, sharp little jerks, and his eyes are wide and dark as he watches her hands work, the one bare in the shadows between her legs and the other dark-gloved at her pale breast.

"Jesus, Bobby, that's…oh, fuck," she can't even tell him, can't find words, she's just slipping her fingers lower, pressing her thumb down hard on her clit as she pushes fore and middle fingers inside her, reaching up and pressing in, over and over. This is good; this is perfect, exactly what she needed. There’s nothing in her imprints like this, like fucking herself on her fingers, like the tight build of pleasure centered on her clit. This is hers. She focuses on the sensation, lets it ground her in her body. And Bobby's watching, watching _her_.

His balls are drawn up round and tight against the base of his cock and he looks a little desperate and a little lost as he speeds his hand. His eyes are totally intent on her, and she moans a little at how good it is.

"Don't come yet," and the command in her voice surprises her even as it makes her squirm, fuck herself harder on her fingers, get deeper. It doesn't matter _where_ this comes from, this sudden ability to direct, to demand. It's _hot_, and she can tell Bobby thinks so too, because he gasps and makes a little strangled noise and snatches his hand away. His cock twitches up against his belly, and he digs his fingers into his thighs, like he’s holding on out of sheer force of will. There's a thin rime of frost around the indentations of his fingers, and his breath hisses out, loud in the night air. The way he's _looking_ at her, like she's the only thing he wants…God.

Marie lets her breath hiss out between her teeth and pinches her nipple hard, rolling and twisting it between gloved fingers. She hitches her hips down a little further on the cushion, moves her foot a little closer to the window, so she's spread wider, so she can reach the perfect angle more easily.

He’s shaking, hands clenching rhythmically, staring at her. Part of her can't believe she's doing this in front of someone — maybe the last vestiges of Southern propriety crying out — but she feels heady with power and sex and his eyes on her, and really, it's too late to stop now anyway.

She can feel her orgasm tightening low in her belly and she presses her thumb harder against her clit. It's never been this good, alone in her bed at night. She stares at his mouth, remembers the way his kisses tasted, wants that again, fiercely. His eyes are fixed on her, roaming over her hands, her face, and she needs him to watch her like this, to _see_ her.

It's so close, and she's panting, gasping out broken words; she wants to come like this, with his eyes on her. She wants him to, oh _fuck_ — "Bobby," she says, and the words are thick in her throat, "Bobby, oh god, look at me, look, ah," so close she can taste it, and he's looking at her, whole body tense and hard and wanting, frost forming underneath him on the cushion. "Bobby, I'm going to, oh … watch me, watch me come," and he makes a low broken noise and just like that, she's gone, pulse roaring in her ears, muscles snapped rigid then clenching, violent, ebbing slowly in pulses of release and relief.

_So good_. There's no room for anything but her own body's response, her own reaction. It's oddly purifying, a sweet reminder of her own discrete self. But with the renewed awareness of herself comes the beginnings of self-consciousness. She's barely come down when she opens her eyes.

Bobby's still looking at her, still trembling with suppressed tension and want. His hands are off his thighs now and reaching for himself, hovering, and she panics a little, fumbling for her discarded glove.

"Wait, Bobby, not yet," and she's pulling it on over sticky fingers and scrambling over to him, nightgown still half off her shoulders and shaky with aftershocks. She barely avoids falling against him in her haste and catches herself, one gloved hand on his shoulder. He's braced against the back of the windowseat, staring at her, looking almost afraid. "Let me," she says.

It's not gentle, with her still clumsy from her own pleasure and him wound so tightly, but it doesn't matter. He chokes out her name at the first touch of her gloved hand on his cock, too loudly, and she fumbles blindly for his mouth with her other hand, covering it, fingers slipping in. His mouth is warm and wet through the fabric; he sucks her fingers and she knows he can taste her.

"Like this, Bobby," she says, and he thrusts up into her grip jerkily, moaning around her hand. It's not more than a few seconds before he comes messily, suddenly, over his stomach and her glove, hips working through the last shudders of it.

There's a sudden awkwardness, when his body relaxes and he opens his eyes. She takes her hands off him, quickly, and unthinkingly raises one to her mouth, licking at her glove. Salty and strong; she sees him shudder, watching her, so she doesn't make a face, but she doesn't lick the rest of it off, either, just drops her hand to her side, wipes it on her gown. For a moment it seems like there's nothing to say.

Until he gives her a little half-grin, and blushes so hard she's sure he'll melt some of the frost around them. "Damn, Marie," he says, "I kinda…I kinda want to touch you even more, now." And she knows exactly what he means, but she starts giggling and she can't stop. They just had _sex_ and he still can't touch her, and somehow this strikes them both as the most hilarious thing in the world. They're both doubled over laughing, careful not to touch, but cracking up and unable to stop until they both run out of breath. It feels good.

"Hey," Bobby says, when they're both done gasping for air. "Get your robe back on and come over here again." While she's retrieving her robe, he scrambles off the seat and finds his boxers and his shirt. He uses his shirt to wipe himself off before putting it back on, grimacing and throwing her a rueful glance. "Guess I get to sleep in the wet spot."

He sits back down on the windowseat, propping himself up against the side again and patting the space by his side invitingly. He's got a big smile he can't seem to get rid of, and she's pretty sure she looks about the same, though she's having a little trouble looking him right in the eye just at the moment.

Covered now, and warmer, she crawls back over and tucks herself into his side. When his arm steals around her, it's like they're back where they started, like none of it happened at all. Except that she feels calm now, and a little empty, and a lot good. She giggles softly, and he drops a kiss on her hair. "Damn, Marie," he says again, "full of surprises, aren'tcha?"

He can't see her blushing, but she can feel her face get hot. She thinks about some of the things she just said to him, some of the things she just did, and goes quiet and still with embarrassment.

Bobby's arm tightens around her waist. "I liked it," he says softly, and she relaxes a little. "I just wasn't expecting anything like that. I mean, we never …"

"I know," Marie says, and she does. She wasn't expecting it either. "I just … it's been a long couple of days, Bobby. And I …" she's not sure how to explain what happened, why she suddenly needed that so badly, where it all came from. Some of it isn't hers to explain, and some of it's just impossible to put into words. If Bobby couldn't understand when she tried to tell him about the imprints, this whole thing will sound _completely_ crazy. "It just seemed like the right thing."

He laughs quietly, above her head. "Don't hear me complaining. I feel like I might actually be able to get some sleep now." He moves his arm to get at the hood of her robe and draws it up, pulling and tugging at it until it goes over her head and she can lean her cheek on his shoulder with the warm fleece between them. There's a lap blanket pushed over near the window, and he throws it over her legs before gathering her back in. "Don't wanna move, though."

"Mmmm." She's warm and comfortable, and her head feels clear for the first time in days. She can feel him getting heavier, the grip of his hand on her waist slackening as his breathing evens out. Out like a light. She snuggles in a little closer and closes her eyes.


End file.
